Page 41 of Freefall

He shifts on the bed to face me, his warm hand still firmly pressed against the top of my leg. “But I need to know.” His voice softens around the confession.

“Like a safe word?” I ask.

His eyes dart to me; they’re so blue now, like the first glimpse of sky after a snowstorm, and I realize they turn that shade when he’s vulnerable. I thought I would never see him as vulnerable as he was the day we had sex for the first time, but right now? It’s like he’s baring his soul and he hasn’t even said more than a few words.

Given his confidence in bed, the dirty talk, the sheer dominance that radiates off of him in waves at any given point, this can’t be the first time he’s discussed or used a safe word, right? But then why is he looking at me like I’ve sprouted actual wings?

“If I say it, you stop, no matter what,” I say gently.

“Wouldn’t that just be ‘stop’?” he asks. Genuine concern is etched on his face.

“It could be…or it could be a random word. Then ‘stop’ wouldn’t really mean ‘stop’.”

He nods in understanding. “Okay. What’s your safe word?”

I think for a minute. I’ve had a safe word before. I experimented a bit with power exchange with an RA in my building. We started hooking up during my freshman year, but we ended things when he graduated. I wasn’t heartbroken. It always felt casual, but I did learn a lot from him, including the importance of safe words. We used the stoplight system, and it worked for us, but it feels too generic for what Nate and I have. Then my eyes land on the discarded mask on the floor, and the idea brings a smile to my face.

“Buttercup.”

Nate returns the expression, and it’s one of those easy smiles I crave from him.

“You should have one too,” I add, shifting onto my side.

“I don’t need⁠—”

“If I do or say anything you’re uncomfortable with,” I continue. Safe words work both ways. That’s another thing Matt taught me.

He sighs. “Fine….Westley? Dread pirate?”

“How about just ‘pirate’?” I suggest.

“Okay.”

“Hey, Nathan?”

“Yeah?”

I trace a circle around the mattress.

“Are you going to punish me now?”

Shaking my shoulders out, I raise the camera to my eye, framing the couple in front of me. Normally, this is one of the few times I get a break from my thoughts, a brief escape from the constant chatter in my mind. I’m laser-focused when I’m capturing the memories of others. After all, it’s what they will look back on for years to come. These pictures will be carefully framed and hung on walls, saved as lock screens, pinned on refrigerators. Eventually, they will be tucked behind plastic in keepsake books and albums, printed and stored in boxes, preserved for sharing with children and grandchildren. Then one day, when age has threatened to steal the very memories sealed in these photos, the bride or maybe the groom will look at them and remember.

That’s my hope anyway.

But today, as I click the shutter, all I can think about is the man who taught me how to fall in love. The same man I taught not to feel guilty about wanting what he wanted.

I hadn’t thought about that night in a while. I kept it locked away in the part of my brain I reserved for him, but when he came up behind me yesterday? The words he spoke, rough and demanding, right into my ear? I couldn’t help but let myself fall headfirst into the memory. I hated the way my body reacted to him as if no time had passed. But more than that, I hated the way I wanted to taunt him into doing exactly what he said he wanted to do.

God, I want to punish you.

“Okay, this is kind of cute.”

A soft, playful voice—the exact opposite of the one I can’t seem to get out of my head—floats along the early evening breeze.

I lower my camera and turn to face TJ. “Told you!”

“Did they really need two photographers, though?”